


The journal of a Henry Carter

by SamWolfgang



Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Diary/Journal, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mystery, Victorian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:34:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26069545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamWolfgang/pseuds/SamWolfgang
Summary: Henry Carter, a timid office employee in 1889 Britain, is flung into an ill-fated expedition when one night he writes a hasty response to an article on a "hazardous expedition to the South Pacific". Starting his journal when out of the blue he receives a response, Carter is throw into a world he could only imagine. A thin man, inexperienced and diffident, a prominent nose and thick wire glasses, he is rushed to make a rash decision that could ultimately change his life. Only suited to be hunched over a desk, in the eyes of his peers, he is bundled onto a train, shipped over land and sea to Lima to serve as the cameraman of the group. There he is met by the members of the impromptu party. An eager, yet failing businessman Bennet, a friendly map enthusiast Green, an odd but well meaning expert in flora Wood, his counterpart in fauna Davies, a no nonsense, emotionless doctor Cooper, the company's leader and only real explorer, a kind hearted and experienced Jackson, a typical historian and archaeologist Turner and the two reckless muscles of the group, Allen and Williams, knowledgeable in all things weaponry. Through the eyes of this nobody photographer, we get to see what happened to the doomed party of the Western Venture.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sat about for a ages now and I thought I'd upload it here. I really hope you enjoy it! It'll hopefully be a continuous piece as I have lots planned. I'm working on another story that I hope to have published one day and turn into an epic four part series, but this one would certainly work better as regular instalments. So I thought, what's a better place than here? My writing has come on a lot since I first wrote this story, so the plot is all there, I'm just rewriting it. This is the only chapter I've rewritten at this point, but I'm certainly hoping to do more if you guys like it. I really really hope you enjoy it!! Thank you

The Journal of a Henry Carter

Note: Found in a bookshop in Lima, 2017  
(Direct copy of pages)

23rd March 1889

I cannot believe this. I dare not believe it. A mere week ago, in one of my sleep deprived states, I thought it would be a capital idea to sign myself up for an expedition to the South Pacific. Mind you, it sounded awfully exciting at the time. I had just finished organising my study and decided to take a glance at the paper I had bought some days prior. Front page, some way down naturally, was an advertisement that caught my attention. “Men wanted for hazardous expedition to the South Pacific”. That was all it took. With Westward Ho! fresh in my mind and not a lick of sense about me, I wrote a brief, scrawled letter to the said address (neither reading anything beyond the headline and contact information nor heeding the fact that this newspaper was last week’s) and in great excitement sealed it and stamped it and flung it upon the pile of letters to post the next day (or perhaps later that day, I do not recall). Not but a moment later was I dozing in my armchair. When I awoke not had I only overslept but I had slept well past breakfast and was fast approaching nine o’clock. In haste I grabbed my bags (still packed from the previous night) and the bundle of letters to post, pulled on my coat and grabbed my hat, before darting straight to the offices. I arrived just as the hand reached its peak, yet I was still dragged to my manager’s office. He’s a stout, round man and always dressed in black. He would not generally be intimidating, for someone such as I (who, I would say, is at least double his height) had it not been for the fact he was double in width. In the words of that upturned nosed, greasy clerk two desks behind me, I am a ‘duke of limbs’. On the topic of him, I remember one time I had had the most joyous experience of adjusting some of his incorrect work. In exchange for my corrections he thanked me, before calling me a ‘parish pickaxe’. He has exposed me to a vast array of terminology over the months, mainly to do with either my glasses or figure, but using such ruffian dialect to describe my nose (mind you my nose is just slightly above average size) quite frankly infuriated me. I told him to be careful to not slip on his own grease on the way back to his desk, which earned me a split lip and a black eye. Anyway, the manager (I’m afraid there may be many digressions to come). What did intimidate me was the fact that, with his weight, he could roll over me any second and I can certainly say I would not be in a good state afterwards. Just to note, I have certainly nothing against anyone of any size, I myself am not to picture of health. But this man- I’m not going to even start or I’ll be using all my ink. Let me leave it at ‘he infuriates me like you wouldn’t believe and the fact that he has made himself rich and wide while some of the poor sods (excuse my language) he employs starve is beyond me’. But anyway. Having spotted my apparent timidness, not even listening when I explained I had been up all night doing his books, he split my wages in half and sent me to my desk. I was in a foul mood all day after that and I recall being glad when I finally left for home. I stopped by the post office, still grumbling over this morning, and posted the letters without a second thought. That leads me onto today. I awoke at the usual time and ate my breakfast as I flicked through the post. I never got a lot, compared to the other tenants, nothing that interesting either. Opening them with a rusty old letter opener I had acquired from another tenant, that I now kept by the table, I mused over each with my usual dull, dazed, morning mood. One, however, sparked my interest. Curious, I began to read. What started as confusion soon turned to denial. What was denial soon turned to excitements. What was excitement soon turned to panic. The letter goes as follows:

Dear Mr Henry Carter

Thank you for your response to the advertisement.  
Though the advert was published a good two weeks ago now, Mr Bennett has shown interest in your letter of application. Mr Bennett asked me to arrange an interview with you concerning your application. It is most convenient that you happen to live in London and I have arranged an appointment for ten o’clock on the 23rd of March. The interview will be conducted by myself, as Mr Bennett is already in Lima with the rest of the party. Ten o’clock 23rd March at 42 Willow Street, ask for Mr Richard Evans.

Yours sincerely

Mr Richard Evans

I was motionless. In no more than a minute, I had to make a decision. Whether this decision was the best one, we shall see. I abandoned my breakfast, donned my coat and hat, locked my door, letter in hand and headed for the offices. The shock I had had did cause the minutes to pile and I found myself once again in the manager’s office. Once again, he was hearing none of it. He dismissed me soon after and I half inclined to return solemnly to my desk. However, surprisingly, I did not. He dismissed me once more, harsher this time. That is when I quite boldly said “I have business to attend to, an appointment at ten o’clock”. As I had expected, he disregarded the comment. Frustrated, and time lessening, I continued. “If I go to this appointment, you may not hear from me for some time”. His indifference only provoked me more. “I shall not be coming back, you know”. At that comment I snapped my mouth shut, but still broaden my shoulders ever so slightly, which didn’t do much I assure you. He demanded that I repeat myself. When I didn’t, I once again got a wave of fury, spit and comments. When he had quite finished, I saw the time. Nine thirty five. Yes, there was certain security, but I knew the trouble I would be in if I stayed. Seeing that my mind had already been made up for me I repeated. “Well... well I shall not be coming back. So...” I couldn’t think of anything witty to say, so I bid him a firm good day before storming (well it was rather close to storming) from the room. I headed straight down the aisle, between the desks. The commotion had not gone unnoticed and many heads turned my way before hastily returning to their work when the manager came thundering after me. Even that greasy clerk two rows back kept his comments to himself, for once. I decided to make no grand exit, I only turned to the room and said “good day all.” Well, that was the plan until the manager got hold of the back of my coat collar. After shaking me around a little and the usual wave of verbal fury, I managed to slide from his grip and say, “I shan’t enter these doors for a good while, likely never again. I wish you all the best-” (disappointedly) before I could finish, I was interrupted once more by the manager. Through his wave of spit I said, perhaps more shouted, for him to ‘shut his trap’. This stunned him, so I finished with “you, sir, are one of the most vile and rude people that have ever blemished these premises and likely the nastiest man I have ever encountered, give my desk to some other unfortunate soul. Good day gentlemen, I have business to attend to.” Mutters erupted throughout the room, broken by a call from who I presumed was that greasy clerk two rows back. I recall it was something along the lines of “hurrah for you guv.” I have to say I was rather flattered that he referred to me as such, though I’m not awfully fond of colloquialisms. Once outside, I checked my watch. It was quarter to ten! Wiping down my face with a hanky, as quick as I could I hailed for a cab and soon found myself outside 42 Willow Street. Though the hand was fast approaching ten, I took my time paying the driver and smoothed down my appearance before entering the building. I must say, for what appeared to be office buildings, the inside was most decorated. I need not go into detail, in my rush I certainly didn’t take into account my surroundings all that much. I approached a man who sat at a desk, across a long path of patterned carpet from the entrance. I removed my hat and asked if this was indeed 42 Willow Street, which he confirmed. I followed this by explaining that I had been told to ask for a ‘Mr Richard Evans’. The receptionist responded with a set on instructions. Take the stairs to the left, follow them to the second floor and he should be three doors down. I did just that. I arrived outside the third door in a long corridor of doors. I knocked and, surprisingly for me, got a response immediately to enter. I did so, naturally hesitantly. This room was rather disappointing actually. It was bleak, plain and slim, consisting of a window, a cabinet, a desk and two chairs. Compared to the lavish ground floor and the good condition of the street outside, this was most unusual. I must say, however, the room did fit its occupant rather remarkably. The man who greeted me, with a solemn look, was as bleak, plain and slim as the room itself. His ashen skin blended into the walls, only his dark hair and suit outlined his figure. I soon averted my eyes, however, staring at the slightly scuffed toes of my work shoes. The man, presumably ‘Mr Richard Evans’, didn’t look up from his writings for quite some time. When he did, I was met with a dark pair of eyes and sad, but relaxed face, with a hooked, slim nose. “Sit”, he instructed, gesturing to the seat before him. I did so, placing my bag down beside me and my bowler on my lap. The man carefully placed down his quill and looked up at me once more. I had a strange feeling that I was being studied, but kept any uneasiness to myself. “Mr Evans,” he introduced, leaning forward and holding out his hand. I took it, responding with “Mr Carter.” His hand was cold as ice and I had to refrain from starting at the touch. He then re-seated himself, pausing and then proceeding to flick through a stack of papers. He appeared to have a tendency to pause, now that I think on it. I supposed he soon found what he was looking for and read through the document at an obvious distance from his face. “Mr Henry Carter,” he said (or read, or asked, I didn’t know). I just nodded; a gesture just as vague as his words. He placed down the document and rested his arms on the arm rests of his black, spindly chair. Silence settled upon the room. His sharp eyes still studying me from beneath his placid brow. “So,” he finally began. “So, you’re interested in this expedition.” I nodded (embarrassingly) shyly. “Pray tell, what caused such interest?” This caught me off guard. I wasn’t exactly going to explain the events of that night (or rather early morning). So, my skills of improvisation came into play. “I’m not sure really, I sort of just... saw the advert” (or perhaps rather my lack of such skills). “I see,” he responded. “Are you accustom to such events?” I shook my head, “no.” “Have you ever left the country?” I shook my head once more. This raised a wiry eyebrow. “Where have you been, exactly?” “Well... me and my family went to the Lakes once, the Lake District, up north. Oh, I’m quite fond of Yorkshire too, I have some relatives there, see, I used to spend some summers up there wi-” “so you haven’t left the country? So, you’re not accustom to extreme climates or a drastic change in culture. How does your body fair? Would you say you are healthy?” How was I to respond to that? I even recall him looking me over at that moment, giving a deliberate glance to my wrist, which I had the resist from covering. “What about fitness? How far can you run?” How was I supposed to know that? “I go on a walk every Saturday afternoon with an old school friend of mine.” “What about languages?” he stated, “are you fluent in any?” “Well,” I attempted to recall, “I did a fair bit of French back in school, but I’m afraid I’ve forgotten most of it.” He drew in a breath. “Do you know how to fight? Shoot a rifle, for example?” I shook my head. “Have you ever triumphed in a… collie shangles?” He asked, only a glimmer of amusement seeping through his cold exterior. “Excuse me? A coll-” “so, you’ve had no experience of foreign countries, a health of average at best, your fitness goes no further than a stroll, you can’t even shoot a rifle and you think it’s a smart idea to sign up for an expedition to some unknown island across the globe?” I nearly responded, with the fact that I hadn’t come here to be personally attacked, but he once again interrupted. “What exactly can you do?” Now I was the one to paused. That was a good question. A very good question, in fact. What can I do? With nothing coming to mind, sadly, I thought I better explain myself. “Sir,” I began, “I practically severed all connections to be job this morning. If I have to go back, I fear I shan’t be welcome.” “That’s nothing to do with me,” was his response. “I-,” I could only sigh. “I shall ask you again, what can you do?” He repeated, much firmer than before. Then I recalled a long-forgotten hobby. “I... I’m an amateur photographer, of sorts-” “a photographer?” He replied, leaning forward. I, unintentionally, shrunk back, “yes, well, sort of.” “So you can operate a camera?” He asked, his eyes now keen and studying once more. I nodded. “Do you have a camera?” I nodded. “I’m presuming a newer make?” “Yes, I purchased it a few months ago.” “And you have all the developing chemicals? The plates? All of that?” “Naturally,” was my reply, gathering an ounce of confidence. The man paused, this time in thought. “You do know what this trip entails?” “Not exactly,” I admitted. “This is an expedition to an island in the South Pacific Ocean. This island is supposed to be a fair way off the west coast of the Americas. It has not been explored to our knowledge and it is even debated whether the island even exists at all. So, as you can gather, we do not know what we shall find. I shall arrange some reading material to be sent to you, so you can brush up on the history of this place- can I get you there?” he interjected. “Pardon?” Before I knew what has happening, Mr Evans had pulled out a map and a mass of timetables from a draw. After much muttering and flicking, he announced “I’ll expect you at Broadrum station tomorrow, ten o’clock”. I could only respond with and open jaw and a stammered “excuse me?” “Tomorrow at Broadrum station. Bring all of your camera equipment and enough provisions and clothing to last a good few months. Don’t fret, if you forget anything I’m sure Mr Bennett shall have a spare.” At this, Mr Evans began to herd me out of the room. I managed to grind my heels into the floorboard, accompanied by a string of waits. “...wait. I don’t even know where I’m going, how long I’ll be gone, I mean, why would Mr Bennett want me on this expedition if I’m so imperfect?” “It’ll all be explained in due course. I’ll send you some reading material for the journey to Lima, that should explain things for you. If you must know, Mr Bennett had planned for a photographer to join the party but he declared last minute that he was unable to come. Mr Bennett has a camera, but he much preferred for someone to be solely in charge of it other than himself. Anyway, tomorrow, ten o’clock, at Broadrum. Good day.” With that, the door shut behind me. I had to take a moment to take in all that had occurred. I couldn’t believe it. I exited the building, distantly thanking the receptionist on my way. Even while walking down the street I kept looking back at the building, checking it was really there. Even after climbing the steps up to my rooms, having walked home in a daze, I was preparing to wake up any moment. I, however, did not. And that is where I shall leave it. I must prepare my bags for departure tomorrow morning. I still can’t believe it. I shall say this, if I awake in my bed and this entry is gone, I must have the most magnificent imagination in all of London.


	2. 24th March 1889

24th March 1889

I must say, I scarcely slept last night. But upon awaking I noticed my entry was still there. I spent the previous afternoon gathering everything I could possibly need and utilising every sort of bag I could find. Not being the travelling type, I only have one suitcase. I tried to remedy this by stopping by at a local shop, which I knew had a small supply of bag styles. But upon realising a new decently sized suitcase was far beyond my measly income, I only bought one. However, as luck would perhaps have it, I just so happened to bump into one of my neighbours while on my way up to my rooms. Another tenant of Mr Theodore Booker. Lady Griselda Barrere (if that’s how it’s spelt) she’s called (whether that’s her real name I don’t know), but the neighbours just call her the posh bag upstairs (though I certainly don’t approve of this crude name, the bag part is unquestionably a remarkable coincidence). She is an old thing, a relic of the times of men with knee high stockings and hair tied back in bows. She is quite extraordinary actually. Such a highbrow, stately woman living here, sharing a house with a band of ‘youthful’ men down on their luck. She seemed to always favoured me the most, well that’s what she’d tell me anyway. I think she regards me as an adopted grandson of sorts, she said I was “respectable”, which I shall take with some admiration from such a lady. How out of placed she looks though. With her loose skin, painted every morning, and grey wires of hair pinned up with diamonds (I heard they were fake but I wouldn’t know) and her neck roped in pearls and her silk gowns, teetering heels and the posture of someone far younger than her face, though her gloved hands were still clawed and quacking every time she came onto the landing with her rattling, chipped crockery, demanding our other rowdy tenants to “hush” themselves. What a character she is. That’s beside the point. Lady Barrere, being of the nosy sort, asked me what I was doing with such a suitcase. I told her it was a long story, but I was going on a trip and I should be gone a while. I was most surprised when she showed great interest and asked me to join her for afternoon tea. I shall spare you the ins and outs of that afternoon, as it spanned far into the evening (as I’m far too polite for my own good to explain I should really be getting on with my packing). Yet, as I hadn’t received any information from Mr Evans, I couldn’t tell her an awful lot (so how our conversations lasted into the evening is beyond me). I eventually managed to escape and, realising the time, I forwent dinner in favour of hurriedly sorting through my possessions. I had only managed to fill the first suitcase before I heard a light tapping at my room door. Much to my surprise, Lady Barrere stood in my doorway, not so discreetly nosing into my shambles of a room. When her mildly revolted face turned to mine, she not so quickly smiled at my undoubtedly startled face. “Oh, I brought these down for you, I have no use for them at my age,” she announced. I failed to mention this prior, but I’m quite certain she must have played in the theatre at some point in her life. Though she’s frail, her voice has a tendency to carry around any corner, and she has an almost flair for the dramatic (though in a more restrained, refined way). When I stepped over the mounds of possessions I had managed to scatter over the single room dwelling, I saw that she had lugged down three of the largest travelling trunks I’d ever laid eyes on. How I hadn’t heard such hefty effects being dragged down the stairs could only be rationalised by my franticly focused state of mind at the time. Obviously I was quite stunned at the suggestion, naturally feeling awful that she had carried those down herself. “Are you certain?” I asked, looking over the discoloured leather cases. Lady Barrere became profoundly insistent at my honest attempt at confirmation, almost offended I dare say. “Are you to say,” she began, “that a delicate, genteel woman, such as myself, should have to drag these cases back up all those stairs? After I hoicked them down here for some poor soul, out of the goodness of my heart?” “No, not at all, I just” I only managed to stammer out before she cut me off with a “well good”. Flicking a threadbare, Tyrian purple shawl over her shoulder, she tottered across the landing, eyeing the dusty trunks with a glimmer of sentimentally as she passed. “Take what you need, I have plenty more upstairs.” Her withered lips forming an almost pompous smile, I recall, before she feebly gripped the banister and ascended back up the stairs. I was left dumbfounded at my door for a good few seconds, until I heard my bedside clock chime eight. You can probably guess I utilised the trunks as best I could, as they were far sturdier and solid than my recent purchase. I’ll refrain from describing the rest of the evening, to be quite sincere I barely recall the particulars, but I did manage to polish off a rather meagre selection of cheeses that I bought a few days back and some crackers and biscuits I found at the back of a cupboard. I now somewhat regret eating so hurriedly, as I am now afflicted with a rather dreadful case of indigestion. Not to appear obscene in any way, though I assume these scrawls will only ever be for my personal viewing, I am at present in a considerably low, tepid bath. It is far from anything grand, merely a stout, tin bath, yet it does its job to a degree. I have, however, learnt to habitually bolt the door before even unbuttoning an article after a rather mortifying encounter which is better left unsaid. It has only occurred to me now, but how am I to wash while away? Will they have such facilities? And how am I to (pass over that remark). I do have a tendency to overthink, so I best leave it as I’m certain it’ll be explained in due course.


	3. Update

Hi! Just to let you know, I’m working on the new chapter so I’m still here. It should be out by the end of the month I hope. Thank you!!


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